Sunday, May 17, 2015

Touch, I keep coming back that word after reading Jason T. Miles newest release How It Happened. A mini comic in the truest sense of the word, risographed and printed on grey paper with purple ink How It Happened revolves around a visit to an artist's studio by a long time fan, but its the fandoms touch that overtakes the work. Miles artwork clashes with itself, varying between heavy brushstrokes creating nearly abstract imagery, to lines inked with precision and care, but the battle these two styles are fighting isn’t over space but rather authorial ownership.

Much like the very cover of the book (that you are holding), human touch, human commodification and the creation of mass art creates a messiness inherent to the object. A risograph comic will have its ink smudged even after its dried. A slight fold by the postman irrevocably changes the book. A spilt drink, a moldy home, a hungry dog, a licked finger all change the physical object in ways the creator could never intend. That is why the front cover is barely recognizable as anything outside of a series of ink splotches, which change context every time you look at them (is that an eye? a flower? a figure?) because the work changes in an infinite number of ways between one breathe and the next.

A bookcase filled with leafed over zines has a waviness to its composition. Blotches of ink appear to be placed haphazardly between the lines that create the image of a bookshelf; making a vaporous approximation of a series of book spines placed next to each other. When pulling a random comic off the shelf the grid shifts with every movement of the hand. Nothing is defined. Not even the idea of a book.

Original art, sitting perfectly framed on the author's wall, retains its rigidness of creation because of its classification as “not to touch”. One cannot reproduce an original because it is just that, an original. The Heisenberg Effect posits that once something is observed it is irrevocably changed, the same idea exists with an original and a reproduction, each reproduction, however skillfully done, loses something of the original; it becomes murky with the fingerprints of the other, the other artist, the other photographer, the other machine.

Even the encounter between the fan and the creator becomes murkier with each passing page, as the idealized version of the meeting becomes the actualized, as beer is drank, weed is smoked, zines are flipped through and the end is reached.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

"The
thing that I consider most important about my work is this: I told it
like it is. I told my readers that the bad guys have a little of good in
them, and the good guys have a lot of bad in them, and that you can't
depend on anything much; nothing is always going to turn out roses."

- Carl Barks

From
the first written narrative onwards the titular character of any story
has had a natural tendency to be ascribed a certain heroic virtue by its
readers. Carl Barks Donald Duck saga
proposes an interesting twist on this idea. Donald Duck, originally a
sidekick to Walt Disney’s banner character Mickey Mouse, began his solo
career in comics during 1937 as a wisecracking reiteration of himself.
It wasn’t until Carl Barks entered into the Duck universe and began
filling it with a supporting cast of family, friends and enemies; along with writing him into globe trotting adventures that brought him into contact with the lost tribes of the Andes and the haunted castle of the Clan McDuck that it became
clear that Donald had to overcome his origins as a sidekick too become
the hero of his own narrative.

This
transformation is difficult though; and across Bark’s epic we
continually see that Donald is not the hero of his own story, but rather
a participant in it, still learning his way around. But it is who he is
learning from that is the most interesting facet of this journey.
Readers naturally ascribe heroic qualities with adults, and more
importantly the role of teacher is almost always represented by a wise
elder and the hero an individual in his mid to late
twenties. Donald's only elder in the Barks saga though is Uncle Scrooge, the world's richest duck, a
character that has more in common with Ebenezer Scrooge before he is
visited by the three Ghosts of Christmas than after. Scrooge is a robber
baron with a money pit that he regularly dives into for fun, a display
of hedonism that even the Romans may even have found a bit much.

The only other character of any significant age
in the narrative that could be called, in the traditional paradigm,
Donald’s teacher is Gladstone Gander. If Scrooge is the world's richest
duck, Gladstone is the worlds luckiest. Breezing around life with no aims
or goals Gladstone is assured in his confidence that the stars above
will take care of him because they seemingly always do. He is largely
Donald's foil not because of Donald’s hatred of him, but because of his
jealousy of him. He wants that life of leisure but will never have it because that
is not Donald’s path. He has to strive for something or their is no
narrative for Barks to tell.

(It
should be noted though that Donald does learn from these two individuals
explicitly, but they are not lessons that Barks wishes to teach the
reader, but rather condemn. Scrooge’s greed and Gladstone's reliance on luck feed into all of Donald’s worst tendencies, and he is
continually punished for them. They represent the weaknesses that he
must overcome to become a better person, even though they seem so profitable
for the two people he has learned them from.) *****

No Donalds teacher(s), and the real heroes of Bark’s saga, are his three nephews Huey, Dewey, and Louie.

There
is a history of side characters rising to the level of the “hero” in
comics, fellow Landon School of Illustration and Cartooning subscriber
Roy Cranes most famous work Wash Tubbs quickly transformed from a comedic strip of one mans continuing series of misadventures into the celebrated Sunday strip Captain Easy: Soldier of Fortune,
where Wash Tubbs exists solely as the sidekick to Captain Easy as he
punches his way through adventure after adventure following Easy’s
introduction into the series. Superhero’s comics, which follow in the
footsteps of Crane, largely do not have this kind of narrative upheaval
since they begin with Captain Easy and expanded outwards with Wash
Tubbs. Batman, The Dark Knight, has the mostly derivative sidekick in Robin who exists almost solely for comedic relief, not as a person to learn from outside of
government funded PSA’s.

Huey,
Dewey, and Louie though are unique in this history of heroic usurpation though
because, unlike Captain Easy, they are not swashbuckling loners with a
deathwish who always get the girl in the end, but rather merely
children. But it is the very fact that they are children that allows
them to exist as a mirror to be held up against the eccentricities of
Donald, along with the narratives other characters, too show them all
wanting. “Out of the mouths of babes” the saying goes, or since this is
comics “through the eyes of babes” may be a bit more apt.***** Bark’s
narratives have an almost unhealthy obsession with money. A brief
reading of his biography makes the reasons for this strikingly clear; like almost all of the great cartoonists of the 20th Century Barks got
screwed over. A lot. But what is interesting based on his life is that
his belief in hard work paying off never falters. The promise of the
American Dream never disappeared for him*. And it is in this belief of
hard work that we see Huey, Dewey, and Louie stand out compared to
Donald and his elders.

Throughout
Donald's tenure under Barks hand Donald goes through a number of
careers. The common thread across all of these jobs though is Donald's attempt
to do the least amount of work possible while making the most money. Barks most famous story, or at
least the one Fantagraphics decided was important enough to give the first collection of their Carl Barks series over too Lost in the Andes
shows Donald's, and societies, deferment towards the upper, lazy-ier,
class in the face of the hard work of their subordinates.A fact Donald supports wholeheartedly, as he waits to one day join that class.

Lost In The Andes opens
with Donald as a security guard for a local museum, he is competent,
but little more than that. The stories narrative doesn’t kick off until
his supervisor forces him to dust a series of stones collected from
the Andes. Donald, known as a butterfinger since his debut as comedic relief, promptly drops one of the
stones revealing it was an egg all along. After hearing of this discovery the museums board of directors decide to take a trip to the Andes to find the square eggs origin, in hopes
of profiting off of its efficiency in packaging. (Of
course with Donald and his nephews in toe)

The
most telling sequence in this story involves each member of the search
team, from the expedition leader down, ordering the next in command to secure his
boss an egg omelet. At the end of this chain of command lies Donald, who quickly passes the job onto his nephews who, with a lack of eggs, choose to
make the omelet from one of the remaining stone eggs, which without delay, makes its up the
chain of command to the top researcher, even as each link in the chain takes a taste and remarks that they taste of dirt.
Each member though feels their superior will appreciate the
taste for a reason never stated.

That
the omelet leaves everyone who tastes it sick is not telling besides
illustrating that one's superiors are little more than yes men from the
bottom up. But as Barks unfolds the journey you see that Donald's
nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie, while the lowest on that chain, are the
most inventive and successful. They both find the lost civilization on their own, but also outwit that society by blowing square bubbles to stop their, and Donald's,
execution. When the chickens they bring back “crow” it, in typical
corporate speak, falls upon Donald and not his superiors to take the blame for the exhibitions failure.

This series of events though doesn't end at Lost in the Andes. It merely evolves.

*****

Like
a Shane Black script, Carl Barks seems single minded in setting as many
of his stories within the Christmas season as possible. While one may
groan at the sight of a theater marquee during December, for the glut of
films centered around the holiday being shown, when one sees a wreath
and snow drift in a Barks comic it is immediately meet with a feeling of
warmth. This warmth isn’t because of Christmas cheer, but instead
because Barks is at his best when he centers his stories around the
holidays. This is because Christmas allows him to both deal with the
capitalist tendencies of the holiday and the altruistic nature that
underlie the day.

In “A Christmas For Shacktown” Barks
opens on Huey, Dewey, and Louie walking through a Duckburg hovel known
as Shacktown, inhabited by children who don’t have a head lifted higher
than necessary to see the tips of their toes and whose
faces portray a kind of sadness only a cartoonist could capture. The
caption overhead reads “Most everywhere kids look forward to Christmas
with google-eyed glee but in Shacktown Christmas promises to be just
another bare, cold, hungry day!” in the time it takes the boys to enter and leave
Shacktown they are no longer talking about their Christmas plans,
but rather a feeling of downtrodingness has infected them as they think
of the inhabitants of Shacktown “Those poor kids in Shacktown don’t have
any Christmas to worry about, and that worries me!”

Huey,
Dewey, and Louie’s empathy for others is one of their hallmark
characteristics, and what's more is their ability to turn that empathy
into action. On there way home from Shacktown they come across Daisy
(Donald’s seeming girlfriend, but not quite) after seeing how affected
they are about the plight of the Shacktown residents she proposes her
and her women's group, with the aid of the boys and Donald, create a
fund to buy turkey dinners and a toy train set for the children of
Shacktown.

Daisy
and the boys insistence on helping the children of Shacktown doesn’t so
much change Donald’s way of thinking but rather shift it. Previous to
their talk we were shown Donald walking in circles around his house
trying to figure out a way to get enough money to buy his
nephews presents so that they could have a happy Christmas. After the
boys insistence that he give the money he had saved for their gifts to
the effort to supply the children of Shacktown with toys (in addition
to Huey, Dewey, and Louie’s donation of the funds they had saved for
Donald's gift) Donald changes from worrying about raising money for his
nephews to a single minded devotion to finding the remaining funds
needed almost instantaneously.

That
Donald continues to attempt to gather the money needed in ways that
requires the least amount of work possible, primarily by scamming Uncle
Scrooge, while his nephews shovel driveways and Daisy sells her furs, is
decidedly characteristic of Donald. But Barks makes a point of not
allowing him to get away with these easy outs. Even when one of his scams work, and he is given the money needed, it is quickly lost by the time it takes him to find the boys. It isn’t until he enlists Gladstone's help, and following Gladstone ’s returning of a lost wallet, that he secures the funds needed for Shacktown.

It
isn’t that Donald lacks the empathy that his nephews bring out of him,
it is that he needs them to show him when to think past his own family
and look at the world as a whole. And that is a sign of how complex of a
character Donald is, but why he needs Huey, Dewey, and Louie around to
show him a better way.

-------------

*That
Barks is still remembered today as “the good duck artist” i hope sheds
some truth on this thought, even if he spent most of his unknown and
died impoverished.

Monday, May 4, 2015

It would be simple enough for Josh Simmons to draw a series of gory
images over twelve pages and call it a day. It's something he excels at,
but Simmons (as always) adds additional layers to his work, and this is
what distinguishes him from other horror artists. Simmons can
be as disturbing and horrific as everyone else, more so in fact, but by
including the seeds of something more lofty he is able to force his stories
into the readers sub-conscious, leaving them to linger long after the
final page has been turned.

The standout element of 'Flayed Corpse' is Simmons use of dialogue to
tell two stories at once. Layering each words meaning around a single event, an
autopsy, creating both a grotesque examination
of a mutilated corpse and a commentary on philosophy, science and their relationship with humanity.

This double narrative begins on the first page as a mysterious voice
address the other coroners "Industrial accident, I would say",
commenting on the injuries the man has suffered, but also expressing a
decidedly Marxist critique. This critique is drilled home by another
shadowy figure who remarks that the marks more so resemble those caused by
an angry mob wielding machetes. This brings to mind the Reagan-era funded death squads of South America, capitalism in action. The two go back and forth over the next
four pages, conceding some points while bringing up new ones (racism,
self reliance, etc) until a third figure interjects saying that they are
both right and wrong, the man was tortured, burned, ground up, beaten,
and hung, but it was both of their actions that lead towards these
injuries.

This third voice has a definitive tone to it, in both discussions (the
political and spiritual) this voice is granted the final word on the matter. By setting this
story in a scientific facility Simmons seems to be stacking the deck in
favor of this third voice, but his answers are no less cruel than those
produced by the other figures, if not more so, due to their calculated
and sterile tone. His final statement, combining the two theists ideas of the after life and blending it with quantum physics "Neither of you are exactly right,
or wrong...He died terrified, in
agony. And it echoed out and was absorbed into a universe already sick
with pain" creating a fate far worse than those posed by the Marxist or Capitalist coroners.

What Simmons never does though is push the readers sympathy towards any
of these "options". By only showing the coroners in silhouette; Simmons
doesn't allow the reader to identify with them. Instead
Simmons humanizes the corpse, keeping him as the focus of every panel with a look on his face that seems to be pleading for an end to it
all. Opening on the corpses face, Simmons depicts him deeply in pain. His only visible eye seems to almost be crying, all the
while as his coroners argue overhead. This emotion is actualized with a clenched
hand that looks to be shouting for help to a group that never wanted to
help him in the first place, only discuss his suffering in the abstract.
Even in a moment of empathy, when one figure says "At least we know his
suffering is over" the statement is only used to launch into the next
argument, not mourn what had happened to the man.

You can purchase 'Flayed Corpse', by Josh Simmons, at the Oily Comics website here.* This post originally appeared on The Chemical Box